


French Braid

by catstrophysics



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (like really man take a break), Domestic Fluff, Enjolras HAS hair, First Kiss, Fluff, Grantaire can braid hair, Hair Braiding, I wrote this to procrastinate on my actual WIP, M/M, One Shot, Tense Enjolras, mentions of Triumvirate Friendship, need I make it any more obvious?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23694883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catstrophysics/pseuds/catstrophysics
Summary: After Les Amis have all gone home to bed, Grantaire stays behind, insisting on helping Enjolras relieve some tension. How? Well, hair braiding always feels nice, right?
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 117





	French Braid

There were nights when everyone stayed far past midnight, talking and passing a bottle and stories around in a circle, voices rising and falling in a tide that disregarded the streets of Paris sleeping just outside the open window, leaning closer together as the clock ticked minute by minute towards the dawn, when they would all regret staying awake so long. On nights like these, Enjolras tended to occupy himself at the worn wooden desk in the corner, tweaking speeches and revising notes and generally disregarding the cacophony rising from the loose ring of students behind him, the peals of laughter that bubbled up every once in a while and tactfully escaping Courfeyrac’s invitations to “just come down and join us, mate.” 

Tonight was one of those nights, the crisp midnight air fluttering past the curtains, rifling the papers Enjolras had stacked so neatly—neatly according to _him_ , which according to anyone else who dared approach the desk looked rather like he’d arranged them blindfolded—and carrying the conversation through his apartment and back out the window on the far side of the room. 

Why everyone had begun to gather here of all places remained a mystery to him; he and Combeferre didn’t drink, and Courfeyrac’s tendency to do… _whatever_ it was Courfeyrac did when he disappeared for hours and came back smelling like alcohol generally kept itself out of their shared apartment. Enjolras figured it was due to its proximity to the Musain, mostly, and their landlord was hard of hearing and rarely reported them for noise violations anymore. So when their meetings wrapped up, last points faded into amiable conversation and discussions of the upcoming weekend, the party maneuvered through the block and a half, flight of stairs, and sticky front door it took to settle themselves in the cramped space. 

It was nearing 1 in the morning, the time when the few friends there who had the good sense to maintain a circadian rhythm that was not synced with nearby nocturnal creatures would begin to trickle out the front door, leaving with quiet farewells before dispersing into the streets to return to their homes. Joly and Bossuet left first, each taking a moment to press a kiss to the top of Musichetta’s head before pulling their coats out of the heap of outerwear by the front door. They would interlace their fingers, call out one more round of goodbyes, before the door opened and closed and the room was suddenly missing two vibrant personalities, its murmurs muted for their absence. Enjolras heard, rather than saw, this interaction, but it had happened the same way every time they gathered for as long as he could remember, even before the three of them had taken the fall and stumbled into a relationship. 

From there, the group dispersed slowly, as though the gravity between them had dissipated. Enjolras never watched them go, but he raised a hand in farewell every time a new voice chimed “Goodnight, Enjolras,” eyes still pouring over the documents before him. 

Most nights, sometime before the clocktower in the square down the way chimed three, all the voices would have departed but those legally deeded to be there, the quiet, rumbly baritone of Combeferre telling Courfeyrac a story on the couch overlaid with Enjolras’s pen scratching as he made his eternal edits.

Tonight, though, the bell tolled thrice and another man still hovered in the space, throwing a quiet, uncertain eccentricity in the orbital harmony of the triumvirate. 

Enjolras felt a presence behind his chair before hearing him, the faint warmth of another body within touching distance raising the hairs on the back of his neck. 

“You’re tense,” came a voice, and before his mind had properly catalogued who had spoken, his heart knew it was Grantaire. 

“I’m _working_ ,” he said in reply, terse, brushing him off with the tone of his words, slashing a messy red line through another extraneous word, scribbling in a replacement, before crossing that out, too. 

Grantaire pulled a stool up and sat himself upon it, crossing one leg over the other, just at the corner of Enjolras’s vision, just far enough he had to look up from his papers to regard the man, enough that Enjolras had to turn and note the tightness in his shoulders, the strain of muscles that hadn’t moved in hours protesting the motion, and a flash of annoyance sparked in his gut about how _right_ Grantaire had been. The hours had trickled by, sun setting blood-red behind the buildings, and he’d remained at the desk, sipping idly at the cup of coffee Combeferre had wordlessly slipped by his elbow. The coffee had gone cold by now, he figured, eyeing the not-quite-empty mug to his side He regarded the man next to him, a tumbler of brandy held loosely in his hand, with an appraising raised eyebrow. 

Across the room, Courfeyrac yawned loudly, before announcing, “Well, looks like Combeferre and I are going to head to bed,” and the pair disappeared, giggling, back into the cramped bedroom they shared. Enjolras had figured they were already asleep, gone around the time everyone else disappeared, but they’d merely been curled up together in Combeferre’s armchair, nearly indistinguishable. He thought back to when they’d first bought the apartment, drawing straws for who got to have their own room and rearranging within months when Combeferre and Courfeyrac waltzed into love with one another. 

Their door closed, and Enjolras was suddenly acutely aware that he and Grantaire were alone in the room save for the stereo, playing music they could only hear now that everyone had left. The beating of his heart under his skin sped up. Grantaire’s eyes never left his face, and for the first time Enjolras appreciated their colour, a deep, warm brown that seemed to hold a perpetual joke in their centre. 

He cleared his throat. “You usually would’ve headed out by now,” he remarked softly. “Party’s over.” 

A quiet smile began to spread across his face, and he propped his chin up on his hands. “Ah, why would I leave when the main attraction is still right here?” Something unusual twisted in Enjolras’s stomach at how he’d accented “attraction.” He wasn’t sure he disliked it. “Besides,” he said, frowning, “you’re tense.” 

“Why should you care?” Enjolras asked with a sigh, picking his pen back up and turning to the desk once more. Grantaire loved nothing more than antagonizing him, poking holes in his arguments, scorning his ideas with a deft word—never _mind_ that after he and Grantaire stood off and he spent a sleepless night repairing his arguments, sealing them against the man’s probing words, his speeches were stronger and more compelling than ever—and doing it all without backing down when Enjolras’s temper flared and his voice grew louder and louder, filling the back room of the Musain with passionate words. “Just go home, Grantaire.” 

He didn’t listen, readjusting how he’d been sitting to face Enjolras directly. “Y’know,” he said, taking a sip of brandy, “when I was younger I had long hair like yours. I mean, really, Rapunzel-type hair, flowing, golden locks, just,” he sighed, gesturing vaguely down his back, the sparkle of humour dancing through his eyes. “Anyways, when I was out of sorts, my mom used to sit me down and braid my hair, just one big plait down my back. Worked like a charm.” He smiled off into the distance past Enjolras, remembering the touch of loving fingers running through his hair. 

“Don’t really see what that has to do with me.” He marked something else down on the paper, though he wasn’t quite sure what, before: “You should really get going.”

“Enjolras.” 

He looked up, and Grantaire was closer, close enough that when he breathed in he could smell the acrylic paint and leather and—rosemary? no, never—that seemed to radiate from his skin. His breath caught in his throat. 

“Come on.” Grantaire gestured towards the loveseat, empty for the first time in hours but still with the impressions of where their friends had sat just a short while ago, dents in the leather from Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, who always occupied the space together despite it only really being fit for two. “Come sit.” 

And then his hand was on Enjolras’s arm, tips of his fingers brushing the skin where he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves while working, and Enjolras was standing up without really acknowledging it, his legs groaning against straightening as he pushed back from the desk. It had been ages since he’d sat anywhere in this room except at the desk, enough that Combeferre and Courfeyrac had offered to refund him the money he’d pitched in to buy the furnishings. (He’d refused.) Somehow, they’d made it across the room, stepping around pillows tossed in haphazard piles and Bossuet’s shoes—he’d need those back, Enjolras thought, making a minor mental note to return them—before Grantaire settled down on the loveseat and spread his knees, gesturing for Enjolras to take a seat on the floor. 

Looking dubiously between Grantaire and the patch of worn carpet he was indicating, Enjolras shook his head. “Why the floor?” 

Grantaire wiggled his fingers at him. “Need to be able to reach the top of your head, darling, so come on, settle in. It’ll feel nice.” He patted the side of the cushion, and reluctantly, Enjolras moved to sit between his legs, sitting straight-up, stiff. Absently, he noticed that the rug was really past due for a vacuum, crumbs and dirt huddled in patches on the fading fabric. 

“Oh, come on, Apollo, I won’t bite, lean back.” Unthinkingly, Enjolras did so, and the hum of approval Grantaire gave him sent pinprick shivers down his arms. _This is nice_ , he thought, and for a moment regretted always working through when everyone was over in the apartment. It could be nice to sit like this for a few hours, the steady, constant warmth of someone behind him. Of _Grantaire_ behind him, he realized, and took another breath in. It was rosemary, for sure, and the scent settled his nerves. 

As soon as he felt fingers weaving into his hair, his whole body shivered involuntarily, a great release of tension from every tightly-wound junction. Grantaire laughed quietly behind him before leaning down to whisper in his ear. “Told you you were tense, love.” His breath tickled Enjolras’s ear, and he shivered again, goosebumps running rapidly up his arms. “Dutch braid okay? Or would you prefer French?” Once again he could hear the teasing lilt in his voice, but the gentle movements of deft fingers through his hair had taken over the forefront of his mind and he just hummed, eyes slipping half-shut.

“Whatever you want, Grantaire, I trust you.” 

The fingers that had been lightly scratching at his scalp stilled, considering for a moment, before resuming their movements. It took Enjolras far too many seconds to realize what he’d said, and he considered amending the statement. But any amendment would be a lie, so he relaxed back more, leaning to rest his cheek on Grantaire’s thigh, skin warm through the denim he always wore. 

For an infinite moment, this was heaven, alone together with Grantaire’s fingers working aimlessly through his hair, pulling softly through his curls. 

“I’m going to start braiding, okay?” The question was redundant, really, his fingers already separating the blond locks at the peak of Enjolras’s forehead into three narrow strands, but he appreciated the sentiment and nodded slightly. 

Grantaire’s fingers worked magic on Enjolras's nerves as he twisted his hair together, gently collecting strands to add into the braid, pausing to comb flyaways back from where they curled around Enjolras’s ears. If he hadn’t been sitting on the floor, legs crossed and close to falling asleep, it would have been the most comfortable he’d been in years. Regardless, it still was. 

“Thank you,” he said, slipping one hand free from where he’d had them loosely folded in his lap to touch Grantaire on the side of his leg, “for this. How’d you learn to braid, if your mum always did it?”

Again, the hands paused as Grantaire considered his answer. “Told you, she braided mine, but when she was out and busy I learned to do it.” 

“You’re quite good,” Enjolras remarked as Grantaire did something with his fingernails that melted tension out of his shoulders once more. 

The silence fell between them again, peaceful in the half-lit apartment, and Enjolras found that the hand he’d placed on Grantaire’s leg was still there, stroking back and forth absently. He let his mind wander away again, into half-formed images of how they looked together, him leaning into Grantaire and Grantaire at work on his head, ever the artist, operating with the same precision and emotion he did everything. The thought brought a warm, soft glow to his heart, and he mused over this image for a moment, and how _right_ it felt to see it, to see them together like that. 

“D’you have a ribbon, or something?” While Enjolras’s mind had been elsewhere, on the might-have-beens, Grantaire had finished braiding, and Enjolras reveled for a moment in how lovely the tingle in his scalp was, how different the feeling of his cumbersome hair was pulled back in a braid rather than a ponytail or a bun. He held up the wrist with the tie on it without looking, and felt Grantaire tug it off quickly over his fingers before warmth engulfed his hand. A gasp slipped out of his throat, and he felt Grantaire stiffen, before squeezing his hand in a gentle, unspoken, _is this okay?_

Enjolras squeezed back, and Grantaire relaxed again, rubbing gentle circles into the back of his hand. 

“You’re all done, Apollo,” he said, “let me take a picture so you can see it properly.” He heard the telltale rustle of a cell phone being removed from a pocket, then the electronic shutter sound, before Grantaire tapped him on the shoulder with the device. Reluctantly, Enjolras lowered his hand from its station on Grantaire’s knee and took the phone. 

The dim lighting caught the highlights in his hair, twisting across all three even, neat strands, and though the picture just looked like a braid, he could feel the care and attention Grantaire had put into each individual criss-cross. 

“It’s, uh. It’s a French braid, I figured it’s more fitting, because, you know—”

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered, “thank you.” He turned around to face him properly, shifting on the floor and readjusting their joined hands as he did so. “Really, thank you.” 

Grantaire scratched at the back of his neck, not meeting Enjolras’s gaze. “No trouble, really, but you owe me some wine, or something, sometime.” 

Enjolras nodded. “Of course.” 

Abruptly, he made to stand up, pulling his hand from Enjolras’s grasp as he did. “Anyways, I should get going, thanks for hosting and good luck finishing your speech.” His coat was halfway on before Enjolras had even understood what he was saying. 

“Grantaire, wait, please.”

He froze, one sleeve of his coat still dangling freely, and the split-second, wild hope that flitted through his eyes was not lost on Enjolras. 

“Stay the night? With me?” he pleaded, his heart hanging by a thread in his chest. Until that moment, it had never occurred to him how desperately he needed Grantaire, by his side, in his life, but his soul sang as he removed his coat, hanging it back up on the peg by the door, cautious uncertainty etched into the set of his brow. Slowly, he made his way back over to Enjolras, until they were a breath away. 

“Do you mean it, Enjolras?” 

Hearing his name roll from his tongue, every syllable golden, broke the dam for Enjolras, and he leaned forward to catch Grantaire’s lips, parted in surprise, in his own. 

He’d never kissed anyone before this moment, never thought about it except in terms of the fleeting consideration of the mechanics. The flames racing through his veins, setting every point Grantaire’s skin touched his own ablaze, were nothing like his musings, and his thoughts turned from the past to the present as Grantaire’s tongue skimmed across his bottom lip, a question of entry, and Enjolras eagerly opened up for him. 

From there it was a question of balance, of Enjolras weaving his fingers into Grantaire’s hair and feeling the man shudder gently in his arms, of Grantaire running his fingernails against the sides of Enjolras’s head and melting his coherency so he could tilt his head to the side and pull him in at a better angle. Like so many debates between them, hot and impassioned and lightning-fast, so, too, was this. 

It could have been any amount of time they stood there, the give-and-take dance ever-changing between them, but when the clocktower out the window struck four in the morning they pulled apart, hands still grasping. Enjolras smiled, giddy joy rising in his chest, leaning in to press one last, chaste kiss to Grantaire’s reddened lips. 

“I mean it, Grantaire.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Not gonna lie, writing this made me want someone to play with _my_ hair, but alas, quarantine. If you liked this fic, please drop some kudos/comments down below! Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> If you liked this fic, please drop by and check out my current longer fic, [Caught In The Crossfire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23292466/chapters/55784911), an Enjoltaire high school AU. 
> 
> I’m [here](https://catstrophysics.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, feel free to drop by and chat!


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